by Lilly Atlas
It was time for him to die.
And though either Copper or Zach would be the ones to do the honors, Rocket wanted to end Lefty’s life himself so bad he could see the moment the man’s heart stopped as though it was right in front of him. Never in his years with the Handlers had he so much as thought of going against his president’s wishes. Now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself from slaying Lefty long enough to deliver him to Copper, were he the one to find the gang banger.
And Rocket was determined to find him.
For Chloe.
Shit. Rocket poured himself a drink, then returned the bottle to the shelf behind the bar. It’d been exactly fourteen days since he’d laid eyes on the woman. Each of those twenty-four-hour periods, he’d woken with a hard-on courtesy of raunchy dreams starring Chloe, wild and uninhibited. He’d stroked off in the shower every morning, her name falling from his lips as he shot his release down the drain. Then, after an exhausting fifteen-hour day dealing with tension-filled club business and cranky as fuck men, he’d find his fingers wrapped around his dick once again.
He’d come more times in the past two weeks than the previous six months combined. And all by his own hand.
After downing the Jack, he glanced across the room to where Screw was shooting pool with two of the Honeys. If Rocket were smart, he’d grab one of the girls and unload into her instead of his fist. The Honeys weren’t typically his first—or even second—choice of lay, but desperate times and all. The one he had his eye on let out a high-pitched giggle as she blew her shot. It earned her a slap on the ass and quick tit-grope from Screw. Someone she’d also be blowing before the night was up, unless Rocket stepped in and claimed the prize.
“Wanna join us, brother?” Screw called across the mostly empty clubhouse. At three on a Saturday afternoon, most of the guys were home, gearing up for another night of debauchery. Screw liked to prepare for a night of fucking and drinking by fucking and drinking. Even though his name came from Screwball, he tended to live up to the more obvious meaning as well. Hell, that pool table was his favorite substitute for a bed. Not a weekend went by without him bending some broad over the felt. Screw squeezed the ass of the redhead. “Got more than enough to go around.”
What the hell? Something had to snap him out of his Chloe-induced funk.
“Yeah, I’m in.” He poured himself a second drink, then meandered on toward the pool table at the back of the room.
Screw lifted his chin toward the redheaded Honey. Tina, if Rocket remembered correctly. She caught his meaning and grabbed a pool cue. With her head cocked to the side and her crimson-painted lips pursed, she winked at Rocket. Step by step, she walked toward him, bony hips swaying, hand stroking the cue like it was a skinny dick.
Rocket shook his head once. Not Tina. No redheads. Not when there was already one fucking with his mind. He wasn’t known for being chatty, probably considered an asshole among the Honeys, but Tina caught his drift. After sending a pout his way, she shrugged and turned her attention back to Screw.
“I’ll take the blonde,” Rocket said.
“She’s all yours,” Screw replied, giving blondie a hard slap on the ass that propelled her in Rocket’s direction.
“Oooh,” she said with a giggle. “Lucky me.” When she reached him, she plastered herself against his side. The scent of three-dollar perfume singed his nose. “My name’s Lacy,” she said, stretching onto her tiptoes to reach his ear. Her breath reeked of alcohol and menthol cigarettes.
Even in her five-inch stilettos, she barely reached his chin. At six foot two, Rocket preferred his women taller and with some curves. Women with a little height and cushion fit him much better. Just an issue of alignment. Plus, he didn’t have to worry about snapping them in half if he got a little over exuberant, which happened from time to time.
“Rocket,” he answered, taking the pool cue from her hands.
“I know that.” She giggled again as he lined up his shot. The sound resembled loose change in a tin can, grating and unpleasant. Shit. What was with him? Didn’t matter what the fuck she laughed like. If she could kneel and suck, she’d provide the tension relief he needed and be happy to do it.
“Four. Side pocket,” Rocket said.
Screw snorted. “No fucking way.” The kid had been spending a ton of time with Zach, both assisting in enforcing for the club, and managing the gym. From the way he stood with his hands wrapped high around the cue, Rocket could see the extra hours at the gym were paying off. Thick biceps ringed with new ink stretched the sleeves of his T-shirt almost to the point of no return.
The difficult shot sailed into the pocket.
He raised an eyebrow at Screw.
“Sorry, oh master of pool,” Screw said lifting his arms in defeat. “I’ll keep my comments to myself from now on.”
Rocket straightened. “You do that. Starting to look like a meathead there, Screw.”
Another laugh, this one followed by a kiss to each flexed bicep. “I’ll take that as a compliment, brother.”
Rocket’s lips twitched as Tina oohed and aahed over Screw’s bulky muscles. “Baby,” she whined. “When are you gonna take me upstairs and put all that strength to good use?”
Screw might love the company of the Honeys, but he did not like the girls making demands on him. His face tightened. “When I’m good and fucking ready.” He stepped away from Tina and bent over the table. Along with hardening muscles, his personality had firmed up as well, taking him from the near goofy screwball to a serious, sometimes harsh member of the club.
“Nice shot.” The words were cooed in Rocket’s ear as a set of silicone tits engulfed his arm. “How about you line up a shot toward my center pocket.”
Rocket groaned at the same time Screw burst out laughing.
Christ, he was either getting too old or too smart for this shit. There was a time he’d have shrugged off the comment, grabbed Lacy’s hand, and found a dark corner of the room. Now, he needed a little something besides swirling air between their ears.
“Yeah, Rock, when you gonna shoot—”
Rocket sent Screw the glare that had scarier men than him backing down. Of course, the scowl only made Screw laugh harder. With a roll of his tense shoulders, Rocket glanced at Lacy. Her brown eyes were wide and expectant as she waited for him to give her the fuck she wanted.
Wasn’t gonna happen right then. Hell, who was he kidding, it never was going to happen. His dick had pretty much given up the ghost unless Chloe was around. She was better than an entire bottle of Viagra for waking his cock up.
Just as he opened his mouth to blow Lacy off, his phone rang. Saved by the bell. “Gotta take this,” he muttered as he glanced at the screen.
Fuck.
Esposito wasn’t backing off this time. Rocket hovered his finger over the decline button as he stared down at his old boss’s name flashing across the screen. The impulse to send it straight to voicemail was only eclipsed by the need to know what they wanted from him. His neck had been itching for days and that usually meant a shitstorm was rolling in.
“Everything okay, brother?”
“What?” He glanced up at Screw as he realized his face must have shown his displeasure. “Yeah, s’all good.”
“You coming back or you want me to entertain Lacy for you?” Screw leaned his hip against the pool table, arm slung across Tina’s shoulder. The Honey was lazily tracing the Hell’s Handlers logo printed on his T-shirt.
“Have at ’er. Sorry,” he said with a forced smile for Lacy.
“No worries,” she chirped, making her way back to Screw. The three of them would be up in Screw’s room going at it before Rocket finished his call. He’d bet his Harley on it.
“What,” he barked into the phone as he stepped outside. A quick glance around revealed he was alone. Good. This call required privacy. Copper knew the details of Rocket’s life prior to prospecting for the club, but he was the only one.
And Rocket planned to keep it that way.
“No hello? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” the familiar yet unwelcome voice said.
“My mother didn’t teach me shit. She was a strung-out crack whore who died in a raid on her coke den. Surely you remember.”
A grunt was the only response.
“Need you, Logan.”
Rocket pinched the bridge of his nose. “You must, if you’re busting out the Logans already.” Same manipulative shit as always. “Wasting your time, old man.”
“Don’t even want to hear the job?”
Rocket laughed. “Fuck no.”
Silence fell over the line. Rocket had met Lt. Colonel Nicholas Esposito at Parris Island back when he was an eighteen-year-old grunt in boot camp. The guy had followed Rocket’s career, even afteer he became General Esposito, and eventually retired from the Marines. Two years after that, he’d sought Rocket out for his private security—aka government sanctioned black ops—organization. All gung-ho and oorah after multiple tours with the Marines, Rocket had separated from the military and signed a very exclusive contract with Esposito’s company, DarkOps. He’d convinced himself he’d be saving the world and making bank doing it.
What wasn’t to love about that?
“This is important, Logan. And dangerous. A real adrenalin rush of a job, just how you like it.”
“How I liked it, old man. Past tense.”
“I need your skill set for this. You’re the fucking best and you know it.”
So, the job required explosives. Or maybe a sniper. Rocket had excelled in both arenas, but explosives were where his true talent lay. Hence the handle Rocket. Esposito employed plenty of other snipers, but no one as good or as fast at assembling bombs which were virtually impossible to defuse.
“Been out of the game for five fucking years, old man,” Rocket said using the nickname he knew drove Esposito nuts. The man wanted nothing more than to be smack in the middle of the action himself, but at sixty, he was long past his operational prime. “My skills are rusty at best. I’m liable to kill myself along with your mark.”
That was bullshit and Esposito knew it. Rocket hit the range at least once a week. His skills with a rifle, and a hand gun for that matter, were as tight as ever. Not to mention his little explosives lab in the basement of his house. He may not use the shit often anymore, but he’d be a damn fool to let the skills slip.
And he was no fuckin’ fool.
Except when it came to one curvy redhead.
Thoughts of Chloe invaded his mind and filled his dick. Fuck, now he was trying to get rid of Esposito while he had a damn boner.
Wonderful.
“Look, old man, I’m gonna make this simple for you. The answer is no. It’s always going to be no. Every one of these phone calls is a waste of your time.” He’d said those same words more than once since he walked away from DarkOps. Each time Esposito had eventually backed off.
“Can’t accept that this time, Logan. You owe me and I’m finally calling it in.”
Fuck.
It was the truth. With the shit Rocket knew, he never should have been allowed to walk away from DarkOps. Esposito had paved the way to his freedom without any backlash. Sort of…
There’d been those three little words that followed Rocket out the door the day he left it all behind. You owe me. He’d had known all along Esposito would come to collect one day. And he had, a few times, though each and every one Rocket managed to wriggle out of it.
“Won’t do it,” Rocket said.
“You don’t have a choice,” Esposito shot back, the unspoken threat clear in his tone. Do this or I’ll make sure what should have happened to you five years ago happens now.
The line went dead.
Fuck.
“Fuck!” Rocket yelled. He was going to have to involve the club in this. DarkOps would send someone for him. Hell, they’d probably go after one of his brothers or sabotage the club’s business dealings to get him to fall in line. The club knew little of the past that might be coming to bite them all. He couldn’t and wouldn’t leave them vulnerable like that.
But goddamn, this was the worst possible time to bring mayhem to the club’s doorstep. Copper was hobbling around with a broken leg and healing stab wounds while all the club’s energy was focused on tracking Lefty. They didn’t need his shit mucking things up even more.
He glanced at his phone. Seven p.m. In about an hour or so, Chloe would be heading out to find her boy toy for the night. Or for an hour. Despite his mood, Rocket almost laughed. An hour. Who were these jokers she was fucking? He had no doubt he could drag the encounter out longer than a measly sixty minutes.
A smile curled his lips. He loved a good challenge.
With the threat from Esposito, Rocket was well and truly fucked.
Might as well go get fucked in a more pleasurable way.
CHAPTER FOUR
HEELS CLICK-CLACKING across the polished hardwood floor, Chloe weaved her way to the mahogany bar. Her head was high, shoulders back, and her body was hugged tight in a hunter green dress she’d splurged half her paycheck on. But, damn if it didn’t portray her as a confident woman on the prowl. A woman who knew what she wanted and went after it. A woman who didn’t suffer from crippling self-doubt and anxiety.
Appearances sure could be deceiving.
The dress was an off-the-shoulder bandage-style bodycon number. The thing fit her like it’d been designed with her body in mind. Not something that happened every day. Or ever.
Tonight had to count, had to hold her over, and keep the stress at bay for a few weeks. Tomorrow, Scott arrived. He’d knock her out and stuff her in a closet before he’d let her cruise the bars for random men to fuck.
“Day-um, woman,” the bartender said. “You are looking extra fine tonight. You know,” he said with a wink as he leaned on his elbows, a damp drying rag in his hand. “I can serve you way more than just a drink.”
Chloe tossed back her head and let out a laugh. Her long hair tickled the backs of her bare arms, making goosebumps sprout across her skin. Rich was nice to look at, had her favorite drink memorized, and flirted like no other, but that’s where the appreciation ended. At least on her end. There was no way in hell she’d risk taking him back to her hotel room. Sleeping with him would mean the end of her visits to that particular lounge, and she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her favorite meet-up spot for a quick romp with him. Besides, picking up a complete stranger was the only way this exercise worked. And the casual banter she always shared with Rich made him a friend of sorts, or at least put him on a level above stranger.
“Hmm,” she said, making sure it came out as more of a purr. Might as well have a little fun with him. “I’m sure you can. But I’ll stick with a vodka and club for now.”
He winked again. “Sure thing, gorgeous. You change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m off at two.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar.
She almost laughed. Long before two, she’d be tucked into bed, snoozing away. “I’ll remember that,” she said blowing him a kiss.
He caught it and pretended to stuff it in his pocket—their silly routine whenever she visited his lounge.
Chloe sat on the barstool and used the mirrored backsplash to scan the room. More than a few sets of male eyes were fixated on her back. A smile formed as the familiar rush of excitement flowed through her veins.
In here, she was the star. The men came to her and came on to her, but it was ultimately her decision who would be gifted her time and body. If a man annoyed her? She sent him away. If he laughed in a way that grated on her nerves? A drink slurper? Bye-bye buddy. They all wanted her, or wanted the assertive woman she pretended to be. These men fought for her attention with their winks, lusty grins, and offers of alcohol. But in the end? Each and every one of them was helpless to do anything but wait for her decision. Wait to find out who she’d choose, if anyone.
The ultimate power trip.
Though, she always chose one. The second phase of the ni
ght was where she really got her fix. Where the high was so good, it eclipsed the fear living under her skin the other twenty-three hours of the day.
“Here you go, gorgeous,” Rich said, setting the drink in front of her.
“Thanks,” she handed over a twenty, then took a small sip. Legs crossed, she used the bar for leverage and spun on the stool. Time to identify her next conquest.
As she perused the dimly lit lounge, her gaze landed on a table of giggling women, and for one second, her heart ceased to beat.
It’s not her.
Chloe lifted her glass and gulped down a mouthful of mostly vodka. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Rich was trying to get her hammered. Damn, that was a close call. For a hot second, she’d thought she’d recognized one of the giddy women laughing with her girlfriends. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t her old high school peer, but damn, what a wakeup. A little reminder to be careful and not get arrogant.
She’d die if she ran into anyone who knew her. The woman sitting on the barstool in the tight as hell dress wearing Chloe’s skin was not the Chloe anyone knew. Hell, she didn’t even know herself anymore. Never before had she dressed up to attract men. She’d dated some, but was never focused on hooking up or sex. Before her world had imploded, she wouldn’t have accepted a million dollars to seek out a different man or men every week.
But now? Now it had become an obsession. If anyone who knew her witnessed her in action, they’d think aliens invaded had her body.
She’d found that trying to psychoanalyze herself only led to increased anxiety, guilt, and shame, so she’d given up and did what she had to do to keep from losing her sanity completely.
After another healthy sip, Chloe continued her inspection of the room. A few potential candidates caught her eye and sparked a bit of interest. Just as she was about to take a second gander at a sandy-haired business man chatting with two similarly dressed guys, she locked gazes with a set of piercing blue eyes.
